Iris and Everything After
by freezinginbristol
Summary: They had their own reference points, that was true. But with the dream and nightmare that was history and their lives always around the corner, find themselves closer at times then they would admit. She was his Iris and him, well, everything after she supposed. "I think I made you up inside my head." [North American Siblings] [Fem!Canada/Male!America]
1. stars

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

Dear God, she was going to kill him.

She knows he's entered even in her half conscious state, door squeaking slightly and his quiet curse before the slight growl from the giant polar bear on the floor beside her bed brings her into some place in the waking world. The real question was, how the hell did he get a key to actually get inside of her hotel room?

She shoves that to the back of her mind and sinks further into the pillow before actually groaning in annoyance as his finger runs up and down the sole of her foot. She catches him in the shoulder with so much strength he actually tumbles to the floor and almost onto Kuma, before setting himself up and muttering an apology underneath his breath. America moves past the mass of white fur and sits down on the edge of the bed before speaking.

"Psst. Maddie, you awa-"

"You have exactly five seconds before I kill you." The words are muttered into the pillow and thick with sleep but that infernal smile grows on his face at her words.

" I got something to show you."

"Whatever it is, can it not wait until tomorrow after the-"

"No of course not don't be ridiculous." The rush of words makes her raise one eyebrow, eyes opening fully and she turns her body to lift herself up in bed to fully regard him in jeans, dark t-shirt and hoodie.

The puppy dog look on his face is almost enough to make her either break or want to break him. And she should go back to bed and tell him to leave and tell him to forget about it and don't bother me anymore I want to sleep.

"Give me five minutes."

* * *

"Okay, this is ridiculous." she says as he parks the car, looking around at their surroundings and seeing nothing but the hills and trees surrounding them before he steps out, humming underneath his breath. "Where the hell are we?"

"You ask too many questions, Maddie. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"My sense of adventure died when we were six and I almost broke my arm climbing up to get you out of a tree." she snaps, grasping his hand as she exits the vehicle. She snorts at the laugh that comes from him at her statement before he's behind her and putting something over her eyes. "Excuse me, what the hell-"

"Chill, Maddie." The exasperation in her brother's voice is almost tangible and she puts in a few more protests before giving up, her world going black and walking forward with his hand in hers.

"I can still kill you, you know." she says as he opens a door. It's much colder than the warm July night outside and she uses one arm to rub some heat into her body.

"Yeah, yeah. Steps here." America says. It was amazing how much she could actually put up with him at times. It's about two minutes of climbing before he stops, holding open a door and pushing her in front of him. He steps away from her, moving to the other side of what she assumed to be a massive space, and she hears his fingers moving across a keyboard.

"What are you doing?"

"Spoilers, Maddie." America singsongs, and if she could roll her eyes, she would be doing so. Rather the sound of something moving back overhead catches her attention and she tilts her head up and back despite the obvious blockage to her senses. America chuckles at the sight, waiting for the overhead compartment to finish setting before speaking again, voice softer in the night.

"Ok."

Her fingers move to the back of her head, untying the fabric from across her eyes as she speaks. "This better not be some- _oh_."

The sight itself was clearer than she expected and the breath catches in her throat and the endless expansion of stars in the sky, some clearer and sharper than others in the light of the moon overhead, spots of white creation spilled across the universe.

"You can't see them better anywhere else." America says from his place across, leaning against the wall with a bemused smirk on his face as she turns around, gaze still fixated upwards. He pushes off from his spot, arms crossed over his chest as he moves across the room to her, not that she really noticed. "I came here a lot after '72 and the obsession didn't die so...yeah. Owner lets me use it from time to time, for a price of course. But since it's your birthday she was willing to make an exception."

She doesn't answer to that at first, still gaping at the massive expanse across the sky before her words come out. "You did this for me?" Violet eyes finally look from the sight above her to catch her brother's gaze, who seems almost embarrassed as he scruffs his feet against the floor.

"Yeah I mean it's not that hard. Not to say that you aren't worth the effort because you totally are but since scheduling with meetings and shit wasn't working I had to drag you out of bed at like 2:00 in the morning just to-"

Her hand covers his mouth to stop his rambling, as adorable as it actually was despite her sleep deprived brain and raises an eyebrow.

 _You felt the need to overstate with me? Of all people?_

He shrugs, and laughs at her fist connecting with his shoulder soon after he licks her hand that was covering his mouth. "You're an idiot," she hisses.

"But I'm your idiot," he sings, and grabs her wrist, bringing her arm upwards to cover over her eyes once more, despite her groan of annoyance. "Don't complain or else, you'll ruin the surprise," Alfred warns and she sticks out her tongue at him as they step to the side and she finds herself being sat down at a table before her arm comes down.

Maps.

Charts.

Stars _littered_ across pages and pages as she flipped through the massive book, eyes pouring over his drawings of night sky after night sky, the dates spanning father and farther from where she sees them written out neatly on the top of the page.

 **January 17, 1997**

Cassiopeia

Ursa Major

 **April 3, 2003**

Gemini

Little Dipper

Orion

 **September 24, 1986**

Big Dipper

Ursa Minor

Each constellation drawn in and the points seen highlighted in pen and it's then that she notes her birthdate and name written in almost perfect calligraphy at the top of the page every year, standing out against the stark white of the pages.

"When did you-"

"You think I spent all that money on NASA and didn't pick up a few things? I prefer the hand method to computerization anyway, you gotta be more careful with where you place things." America chuckles, running a hand through his hair before leaning against the table, arms crossed over his chest. "I hope you-"

"'Like' isn't even the proper word to describe my feelings right now, even though I am dead tired." Madeline cuts in, taking in a deep breath at the sudden tears that welled in her throat as she looked again that the pages. "You did this every day?" she asks in disbelief and he hums, smile wide.

"Tried to at least, and if I couldn't, then I calculated the nearest estimate to the nights previous, depending on where I am. We need another one though," her brother says, and with his words, she turns to the later pages of the massive book, and he fishes in his pocket, eventually finding a pen hidden in the recesses of his jeans and leans over her shoulder, carefully penning in the date and her name at the top before stepping back as she stands.

"Keep going or you can stop here if you want. I mean I can always add in more stuff for you because it takes a while to actually get the hand of charting out these things without the high tech equipment NASA has and believe me this does get tiring after while. I mean, not to say that you couldn't handle it which you totally can I mean you can handle a lot of things better than I can at times-"

He cuts off at her arms encircling his waist, squeezing tightly and firmly and he wishes that she could understand how untouchable she was to him at times and he buries his face into her hair, breathing in the scent of sleepiness and dreams and starlight before the words come spilling out of him full to the brim of genuine apology and regret and wishing he hadn't been so blinded by his own ideals and fears and needs at the time.

"I love you."

She squeezes him tighter at that, lifting her head from where it rested against his chest to look at him with a slight smile before he speaks again. "You know, all this celebration with middle of the night adventures has got me in the mood for cake."

She snorts. "I doubt that Fred Myer is open at 3:00 in the morning, even for the United States of America. Come on," she stretches upwards slightly to kiss his cheek and maneuver past him to grab the heavy object let on the table, "we _do_ have work tomorrow," she points out when he whines, giving a cry of protest at his keys in her hand. "To the car."

"No fair."

"You drove me here, remember? Mr. Midnight Adventure?"

"I'm the night owl Maddie, as much as you are the moon for me, I'm not trading off my nocturnal habits for one day. Besides, friends don't let friends drive sleep-deprived," America points the words close to her person, body leaning down to press his face into her shoulder and she hoists the book in one hand before the other moves to run through his hair.

"I'm not your friend, flyboy," she corrects and he only hums, lifting his head with those searching eyes of his and that damn smile that seemed to be able to make her feel better about anything.

"Of course not. You're my sister," he presses his lips against her forehead for a moment, breath cool against her skin as he says the words. She almost doesn't notice as he steps away the glaring emptiness of her hand and he's twirling the keys on one finger with that wicked grin of his that made her want to simultaneously laugh and punch him in the face. "And that's a good enough reason not to let you take over a car. Of course, knowing you," his hand runs down her arm, linking their fingers together before kissing her forehead once more, longer this time as a sense of a poor pardon for his actions, "you forgive me eventually."

He holds open the door with a laugh as she punches his arm though the words still ring in her brain as they exit.

Yes, forgiveness with him seemed as constant as the stars.

* * *

 **I'm back.**

 **With sibling fluff. Hahahahaha :)**

 **Song for this adorable piece of fluffiness:**

 _ **Feasts of Starlight**_ **by Howard Shore . Even though I'm not a fan of the Hobbit movies, still love the music used for them! Genius. Here's the link for anyone who'd like to listen!**

watch?v=-gbWL7MJ_kI

 **READ AND REVIEW!**


	2. blood

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS**

She doesn't even remember what started in the first place.

Another long day filled with word and words and words and meetings and disagreements and it bleeds into evening when she's arguing with him about something probably not even necessary.

 _Coward._

 _Weak_

 _Good for nothing god I hate you so much sometimes why are you even in my life at all-_

At any rate her fist collides with his face, and the satisfaction of feeling his bone give way underneath her is an unnatural high. America swears, dropping his bag on the floor in the front of his living room and he moves backwards, barely managing to duck at her heels flings through the air at his head.

He moves forward then, blocking her arm and grabbing her wrist, twisting the appendage behind her back which she hisses through her teeth at the feeling. Canada's head reels back, catching her brother in his mouth and loosening his grip. She hears the crunch underneath her feet at his glasses on the floor.

Like he even needed them.

America's foot shoots out then to collide with her stomach, sensing her backwards onto the floor where he moves, pinning her wrists down and sneering close to her face. He notes the blood running from her left nostril and barely feels the injury mirrored in his own body. Madeline's head moves up, teeth snapping on empty air before he moves his face away, letting go of one arm before bending his knee on top of it and grasping her chin.

"Look at that, the creature's angry isn't she?"

"Better a creature than a product of the times, you capitalist piece of shit."

He laughs at that, something slightly strained before she rips her arm out of his grip and grabs the material of his tie, tugging sharply. As his body jerks forward, she sets her feet under his stomach and pushes, sending him off of her and onto the hard floor before she switches their previous positions, hands now secured tightly around his neck, only slightly squeezing.

"I've knocked you out before, Alfred," she practically spits his name and when he smirks her grip tightens, and from the looseness of his collar she can feel his pulse underneath her fingertips, "I sure as hell don't have a problem with doing it again."

"And what exactly," his hands come up and wrap around her wrists, moving up slightly before hosting her weight up and over his head before he's on his feet, looking down at her, "is stopping you from doing so?"

Ten minutes and they've almost destroyed most of downstairs.

His back collides amongst broken glass and she's hurling saucers at his head before he gets up and charges, catching her by the waist and slamming her back against the wall. Her knee comes up between his legs and he swears, hand coming up to collide with her face, and bruises are spread forming on her neck from where he tried to strangle her in the living room.

Her nails rake down the skin exposed by the rips and tears in his shirt, ignoring the hiss that rips through his teeth at her actions before another punch is aimed at her stomach and she kicks his shin in response.

"Queen of peace isn't looking so contrite now?"

He drawing out her agression, for both them really, that's been pushed down over months and months and months and she snaps at his face, mouth curled in a bloodstained snarl.

"Like you're any better, Superman?" She laughs as he slams the back of her head against the wall. "Just like you to be using me to get your fix."

America sneers, leaning closer to press his forehead against hers before the words are spat out. "I doubt that little piece of Québécois shit could even reach the highs I give you-"

Her knee collides between his legs again and she manages to push him off her and moving out of his destroyed kitchen with him on her heels.

The bullet seems to graze his shoulder before she's turned around, hands reloading the weapon without taking her eyes off of him.

He smiles at her actions, she notes, rolling up the material of his sleeves with that million dollar smile she still hasn't managed to wipe off his smug face.

Bastard.

The next bullet hits into the side of his abdomen, the flower of crimson blooming underneath the white of his shirt. America glares, knowing he'll end up needing some assistance to fix that up. His hand comes away, stained with red and he wipes it off on the side of his pants.

"No fair, Maddie." he says.

Canada scoffs, barrel still pointed at her siblings even when he comes closer and smirks again with that infuriating look of his.

One hand comes up and yanks the glasses off of her face, her own eyes adjusting fairly quickly, before tossing them aside.

"You think you're doing me a favor?" he asks, fingers moving to the back of her head and yanking out the already falling apart bun of hair.

"I know it. Largest, longest," she breathes, her own hand coming up behind his head and she feels him stiffen at her nail pressing into the scar along the back his neck, "and _unblocked border in the world_ and yet you seem to think I can't hear the stuff that goes on in your head?" The barrel of gun is cold against his heart from where she has it pressed. "You think I could just ignore it?"

America rolls his eyes. " I don't suppose you'd enjoy trading places with the asshole of the world. I'm not apologizing for anything with you."

"I don't expect you to. I would expect some fucking self restraint once in a while, instead of this save everyone need you've had since Abraham-"

The feeling of her head cracking back against a mirror is nothing to be surprised at, and he ignores the sharper pain of the barrel against his chest.

She laughs at the pain, teeth flashing in the light of his house. "You don't think it's true?" she spits out, and his grip on her chin tightens.

"Truth didn't need to be said. I didn't need you to-"

"Oh you didn't? I saved you after everything. Who else can say that? Kept my mouth shut after Virginia because I knew what they would do. And yet you still have this need to fight, this need to purge out everything you hate about yourself onto the world and you don't think it gets to me? _No fucking way, flyboy."_

The broken glass crunches underneath their feet for a few moments before he speaks.

"You giving me a choice?" His hand grabs her own wrist holding the gun, feeling her pulse underneath his fingers.

Even in their own chaos they were together.

"Fine. You want to play?" he asks, and the gun is somehow out of her hand and in his, aimed point blank as the side of her mouth quirks up at him.

 _"Let's play."_

* * *

The staring seemed to be a constant.

Even in the bright open diner, the heaviness of their parents' gazes do not go unnoticed, but they relax at her exclamation of him dropping bits of her bacon on the floor for the polar bear underneath the table to eat and his excuses in a rolling of French before she tries to bite him.

England only sighs and goes back to his newspaper, muttering under his breath about "since they were colonies," or some other parental voice that goes ignored by his children.

France sends a sharp kick to the American's shin, and he drops the lock of hair he had been tugging on his sister's scalp before his papa's blue eyes flicker down to the remnants of black and blue on his son's knuckles and then in turn the very faint line of a scar along Madeline's temple.

Old habits died hard- regardless of generation.

"Rough weekend, vous deux?" He asks, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of coffee.

It's with the second stealing of bacon that she finally hits him, and he presses his lips against her temple in apology before violet eyes flicker to meet blue across the table.

"Something like that."


	3. panic

When he lifts his head from spitting out the mixture of bile and water into the sink, she's standing by the door.

Violet eyes meet blue filled to the brim of fear and pain and so much blood in his dreams he was going to drown in it, but he blinks and shuts off the tap before squaring his shoulders. The action makes Canada visibly wince and her frown only deepens, body positioning itself in the doorway and blocking his way before he gives a sigh and that look.

 _I'm fine now please don't-_

He moves forward before her hand shoots out to stop his movement, fingers spread over his heart, which is beating at a thousand miles an hour and the look he gives her of _please don't if you see then everyone else will as well and I am a failure failure failure failure-_

She moves then, back into the bathroom and he follows despite himself as she hoists her body onto the counter, wrapping her pajama clad pants around his waist with one hand running through his hair and the other pressing against his chest as he buries his face into her neck.

 _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry._ His words in her head are almost as frantic and irregular as his breathing and she says nothing to it, pressing harder against his chest in an attempt to bring him out of his already panicking state. She doesn't think anything to him, not yet and gages the situation again as her brother's breathing picks up speed.

God, their existence was absolute hell at times.

And she will watch him frantically gather the pieces up together and pretend not to notice listening to him shove that damn word of _hero hero hero_ into everyone's faces while on the inside he's breaking apart and whatever is left of his pride is the only thing that's keeping things together.

She takes in a steady breath, letting him feel the natural rise and fall of her body as he hisses through his teeth to match her actions.

"Mad-d-die-e-e" he says her name through heaving breaths and she cards her fingers through his hair.

"You're okay." she breaths the words into his ear and the whimper he lets out is enough to make her heart break. And the information goes from her to him and back and forth- approximately 15 minutes of absolute hell for the both of them until he was usually able to calm down, and by then he's too exhausted to do anything but just sit there.

America's grip on his sister's shirt tightens considerably as the ache in his chest began to slow in gradual waves and he chokes back the sob that breaks from his throat. Coming down from such an intense high, most likely now by the looks of it; a nightmare, was the worst period for him, body draining adrenaline from his system only to occasionally spike again when he lost the rhythm of his breathing itself.

 _Maddie. I-just. Can't breathe._

"You can. Focus on me. It's just me, only me." She repeats the mantra into his ear, wanting to cry herself when another sob breaks forth from her sibling, but steadies herself.

Hurts.

" _It's almost over, Alfie. You're okay."_ Canada moves his arm from where it is secured around her waist to spread his hand over her own heartbeat.

She can feel his fatigue setting in now, exhaustion taking over his body despite the anxiety the seemed to plague his dreams and he's mumbling nonsense in her neck.

Two more minutes and he's practically slumped against her. Canada continues her calming actions before slipping down from the counter and leading him back to bed.

The cool of his sheets is somewhat better now that he's calmed down and she makes her way to leave before his voice comes out.

"Can you stay?"

 _He sounded so small_.

She smiles softly, moving back over to him and climbing into the bed. His arms wrap around her waist immediately, and she stretches to kiss his forehead.

"I'll always stay. "


	4. envy

The exchange had been harmless enough.

And she, Madeline Joan Kirkland-Bonnefey, daughter of the two most powerful empires in the known world, was absolutely not going to go down on a stupid boy's dare. He is taller than her, and around 11, only a year and a half older than her by anyone's estimate with muddy brown hair and hazel eyes that looked around at the group of children surrounding them, cries of encouragement coming amongst them.

She would have beaten him were it not for the stupid dress her fathers made her wear.

Down the road, around the tree, hitting the fence post twice, over and back, and she absolutely could have beaten the stupid kid were it not for the now gaping rip in her dress and holes in her stockings. England was going to have a field day with his "act like a lady lecture"

Loser has to give pocket money or (and this was unthinkable) be kissed for ten whole seconds.

Of course she hadn't been expecting to lose at all.

So she braces herself with his hand curling too tightly on her shoulder and fights the urge to gag at dry lips pressing against hers and the sounds of children counting up.

 _One._

 _Two._

 _Three_

 _Four._

 _Fi-_

She stumbles back when the boy (she thinks his name is Thomas) is brought down to the ground by a familiar sight of blond hair and blue eyes and his body on top, practically strangling the offender who even dared look her way and the mixture of frightened and goading cries of children in the background before the adults come over to break it up.

 _-320 years later-_

He's watching their movements.

She can tell that much despite the buzz from the party and the way he stays mostly against the wall and she and Nicholas at least try to look like everything is dandy whereas in reality he's threatened her (no) _asked_ _her_ for another chance at leaving and if it were her decision she would have left him years ago.

Canada bites the inside her cheek when he comes up into the conversation, America's eyes following when Quebec's arm tightens around her waist like they were in some high school drama and a part of her is praying that he could just keep it all in for a few more hours.

America asks her to dance without even making eye contact, and she steps from Quebec with a somewhat apologetic smile and notes the way her hand rests in Alfred's. His finger curling in to trace her palm and he gives a blinding smile to the nation as they step away, the signal of _she's mine and always will be look at her and I will kill you_ is almost tangible.

As annoying and embarrassing the silent communication between brother and boyfriend- she never like the term with him- she can't help but give a sigh of relief from something when his arm lifts up hers and his hand rests on her waist.

America chuckles, the sound something of a shock to her ears, and she lifts her head from where it rested against his chest, giving him a curious look.

"What's so funny?"

"You."

She raises an eyebrow incredulously as they move to the music, sound itself like a hum in the back of her mind. "And how am I so funny?"

"You pretend you don't like me being protective." he says simply, chuckling again at her snort of indignation. Madeleine scowls.

"What I don't like is your need to threaten him," it's his turn to scowl slightly at the words and he turns her under his arm, ending with her back against his chest.," however tempting it may be."

"Aww, but Maddie, didn't you know?" he asks, stepping back with her and bringing her to facing him again, the infernal smirk on his face that she doesn't know wheatear to encourage or slap it off of him, "I've been fighting off people from you since we were born." The music ends and he lifts her hand up amidst the applause and chatter to press a kiss against her knuckles, blue eyes boring into hers with that same intensity that hasn't died over the years.

 _Do you honestly think I'm going to give up for the likes of him?_


	5. persuasion

This was where things were ironic.

Out all the times that he's broken apart, be it in humor or in sorrow, her person was a thing that he could hide himself in before the rest of the world figured out anything was amiss. Now, in the early morning light, America is suddenly aware on the familiar weight next to him, one pajama clad leg over his own, her back to him and he looks at her, all sleep and blond hair and something so good and better than anything he could hope for.

One hand reaches out to poke her shoulder. "Maddie."

The nation only grumbles, hugging the pillow tighter before falling back asleep again. That was until, he shifts, moving closer to his sister and wrap an arm around her waist and pulling her closer to his frame. Her head moves from the pillow to rest against his chest and it take another few moments for her eyes to actually open.

"You need to stop doing this," he says softly, fingers running through her hair. She whines, of course, but he doesn't let up from his actions until her hand comes up to remove it from her hair and draw his arm back across her shoulders.

"Y're w'rm." she mumbles, turning her face back into the front of his shirt, listening to the low drum of his heart. "You were the one with bad dreams, remember? You were freaking out in your sleep last night so.." she trails off again, partially because of downiness and the other part because of his intake of breath at the memories of the night previous; before her hand is against his chest and spread over his heart, while the other runs her fingers through his hair.

He relaxes into her touch immediately, eyes closing again at the sensation of her fingers pressing against his scalp while their combined drowsiness almost makes him slip back under, despite the ever increasing awareness of schedules and meetings and work and god he didn't want to get out of bed, let alone out of his house.

"Then don't." She mumbles, face now turned into the crook of his neck, breath warm against his skin.

"Dad will have my head. Both him and Papa." he says absentmindedly, fingers tracing invisible lines along her upper arm. Madeline snorts. "It seems as though you and I switched personalities overnight."

"Are you blaming me for being a little responsible?" America asks, feigning hurt and she smirks at that before sobering.

"I wouldn't blame you for anything unless you deserve it. Checks and balances, remember? It's not just for your people, you know?" she points out and he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Do I even-"

"Ask that question and I will end you." she says, tone a warning and her hand spreads out further over his heart, pressing lightly. "We've implemented this for years, and it keeps things going. Need I remind you the amount you've had to reign me back?"

America rolls his eyes. "What? Once in 30-"

"Four times, and in '04, if you count the second time I nearly burned your house down after the night previous when you came to "talk" about Nicho-"

"Don't." Now it's his turn to warn her, burying his face into her hair and her other free hand traces along his own. It's both a blessing and a major curse how jealous he could get sometimes.  
Canada sighs at his actions, lifting her head up to lean her forehead against his in some sense of apology. It was a low blow bringing up one of the few countries he hated with a passion. Her fingers are back in his hair and his eyes close again at the action.

"Reste."

"Je ne-" he begins, before her finger presses against his lips to cut him off. "I'm not asking anymore." she says firmly and he groans, head moving to press down against her shoulder.

"Fine."

* * *

He doesn't even remember falling asleep until his eyes to sunlight spilling into the room and his sister curled in a ball next to Kuma.

America reaches over, granting a rumble of contentment from the polar bear as he scratches behind his ear. Canada shifts, mumbling under her breath about apples and the Grand Canyon, body moving closer to his and he can't help but run his fingers through her hair.

Strange how it felt to have more than 4 hours of sleep without the rest of his day on caffeine pills and coffee. The withdrawal was going to make him even more tired, but at this point he couldn't really bring himself to care all that much.

Canada grumbles again, thus time at the polar bear's nose nudging at her neck and Kuma huffs at America's hand shooing him away from his actions, fingers brushing the scar along the back of her neck.

Her intake of breath is deep and he moves his hand as she opens her eyes to look at him.

"Sorry." he starts, the awkwardness building in his stomach and she grabs his hand to move back to its previous spot until his stiff frame relaxes. "Bear."

She chuckles at that, stretching slightly and holding back a yawn. "He's hungry. Got any salmon?"

"Does my bedroom look like a kitchen?" he teases lightly, earning a halfhearted glare from her before she flops back down on the pillows, grumbling again as his arm goes around her waist and pulls her closer.

"I'm tired."

"It's natural." she says softly and he sighs, kissing her hair. "This is where you say it."

"Say what?"

"The, 'you were right, Maddie about me overworking myself and you're so smart Maddie and I don't deserve such an awesome sister as you and as a token of my appreciation I will presently roll myself out of bed and make you breakfast' thing that I deserve right now."

America snorts, rolls his eyes, and earns a pillow in his face which subsequently leads to his tackling her frame and the two them tumbling off the bed and onto the carpet in a mass of tangled limbs, blankets, and a rather annoyed polar bear, who ends up giving each of his owners a sharp nip before climbing back onto the now bare bed in the shaft of sunlight.

"Waffles." he says, breathless from laughter. "That's what you're getting."

That earns him another pillow in the face.


	6. sick

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

In her post coughing stage she wonders how in the world he managed to get into her hotel room.

Violet eyes don't even look up from her arm thrown over her stomach in an attempt to quell the churning and he moves to pick up her phone before sitting down on the bed.

 **Cortana: Heat Warning**

America blinks and gives a low whistle, moving from her notifications and starts to play Scrabble.

"So I'm guessing that's a no for you driving me?"

He's almost surprised at the strength that comes with the smack on the back of his head, though the action isn't anything new.

"I'm just asking."

"Your asking isn't needed. Text Papa." she hisses before groaning again at the lurching in her stomach. He follows her orders, informing their parent at her absence from the meeting before putting down the phone and standing.

"What are you doing?" she asks, sitting up with a wince. Alfred shrugs off his bomber jacket and drops it to the floor, kicking his shoes off.

"What does it look like?"

 _"Non. Tu ne peux-"_

 _"Arrête de parler."_ His switching languages is enough to know he's not leaving and she plops back down on the pillows.

The next hour has her in a sort of haze.

He leaves for a few moments, coming back from his own room with medication, and his own clothes before pulling back the covers of her bed.

"God, Maddie, no wonder you're hot." he says, tugging at her long sleeve shirt.

"Excuse me for being used to cold weather, Mr. can't even stand outside without a heater."

"Shut up. I don't need this from you. I can always leave-" he tugs up her shirt, the action making her head spin as she lifts her arms and presses her head against his chest to quell the feeling.

"Like hell you will. You'd find an excuse to skip work if I had a paper cut." He smirks at her shoulders relaxing as he trails his fingers along her spine, pressing lightly before grabbing his own shirt and pulling it over her head.

"And it's a sacrifice my people would be happy to make."

And she doesn't doubt that. Not for a second and he knows that without any other inclination. She winces as another wave of pain goes through her already churning stomach, her hand curling on his bicep and he can feel her nails digging into his skin.

"Bathroom." he deadpans, wrapping an arm around her waist before her hand against his chest is a signal for him to stop moving.

"No. It'll-" another biting groan and he raises an eyebrow. "Alfred." He almost laughs at the stubbornness in her voice. The tone of _I don't need your pity._

"I'm not giving it, Maddie," he says, watching her as she swings her legs over the bed, limbs almost as pale as the sheets and stark against the black of her shorts. It takes a total of ten seconds before the dizziness starts again and less than a fraction before he's forward with his arms underneath her legs and hoisting her to his chest.

"This doesn't seem like you not offering pity." she growls between her teeth. She's annoyed at his helpfulness and his damn intuition with anything that comes to her safety.

"Come on, Maddie. I could at least get a thank you." he pouts and she hits him again, despite the growing ache in her body at the action.

"You're not getting it, flyboy. And if you think-"

And she pushes off him then, stumbling into the bathroom and is barely able to hoist the toilet seat up before her coughs turn to heaves and he can hear the vestiges of her dinner from the night before being vomited into the bowl. When he kneels down beside her, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and turning on the tub behind her, she doesn't even have the energy to shoot him a glare as she turns her body to the bathtub.

 _Damn you._

 _Why do you always blame me? I told you to go but no, you had to be a stubborn one. I swear you get this from Dad._

 _You sure as hell sound like him_. He holds the hair from her face as she rinses out her mouth and spits the mixture of bile and water into porcelain bowl before he flushes it.

He frowns at the next thought that comes through her head. _Bed. Now._

Canada grips the counter before lifting to her feet and pushes past him, moving over to the scattering of paperwork left on the desk. _Unlike you-_

"Don't finish that sentence," he hisses, positioning his body between her and her work. "Bed." he stresses again.

She knows that if she complains again, he's probably tie her to the damn thing. The pills are slipped into her hand and he watches her down them, leaning against the back of the chair with that infuriating smile of his despite the death glare she gives him as she moves back into bed.

* * *

 _God, how many did he give her?_

Of course, she has that thought pushed the back of her mind as she comes to consciousness fully, staring blearily at the window with the late afternoon sun and the feeling of his arm squeezing her waist slightly when she tried to move.

"Damn it, Al." she groaned sleepily.

America chuckles, laugh rumbling against her back. "Someone's awake."

"Obviously." And she hates that she was already on the way to forgiving him when his fingers move though her hair. The silence carries for a few moments before Madeline's words come out, still thick and drowsy with the aftereffects of the pain meds.

"You should have at least gone to one meeting."

He ignores the question along with the thirteenth buzzing of his phone with the flashing of _Arthur_ on the screen for the past hour. It may have been better for him to think things through, considering he _was_ supposed to present something about oil today. Canada's body turning is enough to snap him out of his silent musings, and she lifts up a hand to give him a light slap upside the head. "Stupid."

He smiles at that, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Whatever."


	7. ocean

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS.**

She can see the ocean sometimes in his gaze.

Something vast and constant on the surface but underneath she only has a second to see his mood shift and she only has a second to see if he'll hold on or fall of the edge completely, lost down there in a dark filled with blue and nothing.

Now she swears she can't see anything but storms.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the hum of the air conditioner, wincing at the creak of his bed and how he could never seem to find any comfortable position. If he strains his ears he can hear the sound of her moving downstairs, and further the sound of bustling New York, and then impossibly close the low drumming of his own heartbeat.

God, he wishes it wasn't at times.

His sister is all smiles and ready for work by the time he comes downstairs, looking at the plate of eggs and bacon and pancakes with coffee while she sits cross legged on his couch and opens the weather beaten copy of Mice and Men.

He will pretend breakfast is just another wave.

* * *

Later, he imagines the ocean pouring from his stomach as he hunches over the porcelain bowl and the knock knock knocking on the bathroom door doesn't dispel him from the high that he is floating on.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later he's all smiles and grins to a pair of green eyes that stain his childhood.

Are you alright? And he prays that England doesn't see him twitch like a spider.

 _Absolutely fantastic._

* * *

She comes on a Tuesday.

Her bag is set down and jacket thrown over a chair to look around the kitchen and find his cupboards mostly empty. The refrigerator is a low hum of electricity and artificial light housed in an empty space save for a few odd items. Madeline lifts her head from inside the fridge, turning to slam into his chest with a exclamation. He doesn't react, eyes following her movements before the words come out.

"What are you doing here?"

When she stumbles with an answer and for an explanation from him, he only scoffs, reaching past her to slam the fridge shut.

* * *

It is morning and he is hungry.

It is afternoon and he is hungry.

It is midnight and he is hungry.

* * *

She tries to ignore the common movements of his pacing and standing and running at 2 in the morning.

But then again, he'll never notice her looking.

* * *

Her fingers are like a magnifying glass.

His back seems at a permanent arch, even more so from where her fingers trace along his spine, one leg tucked between his calf and she presses her face into his shoulder.

"Try."

And he does, every single minute and he tries to ignore the constant ache in his stomach and in his chest every single day but now-

Now there's nothing left in either of them it seems.

Alfred take a shuddering breath in and turns to speak, only to be met with an empty space and unrumpled sheets.

* * *

He flinches now if anyone even looks at him, and it doesn't even seem to stop with the concerned gazes of history and sorrow looking at him from across a table.

Why are you doing this? The man with green eyes that stain his childhood asks the question as if it is anything but a lead ball in his stomach. The man with sunshine in his smile echoes the same question in his gaze, and he can't understand how calm he is despite it all falling apart.

The paper isn't anything of a surprise, but he has to admit the signing off from his leader of releasing him into his parent's custody is something like a punch in the gut. Thin fingers sign on the line and he places the pen down before his fingers move towards his mouth in an effort to distract himself from the obvious.

 _So close._

In the evening,dinner is something of a hell for all of them, and he can feel their gazes as untouched food remains the same over a space of twenty minutes before he places his unused napkin beside his plate and leaves the table. Canada visibly winces, and bites the inside of her cheek as the echoes of at least seven years for recovery comes back in her mind from earlier.

She would appreciate it if their immortal lives weren't so.

* * *

The man with a cloud on his head, like a grey storm and eyes that seemed too young in such a body is very kind.

America can tell that much at least, and only gives soft, empty, one word responses of yes and no to any of his questions, though Dr. Stevens doesn't seem that dissuaded. Long fingers fiddle with the material of his sweater, tips ghosting over his knuckles that are covered with thin, unsightly scars.

Do you want to get better?

America bites his lip, teeth digging into dry, chapped skin before he gets up, moving past the small enclosure and past the questions of his parents and down the stairs, pushing open the door and keeps walking.

Down a block and turn where they pick up speed and

Into the street where a driver misses a light and

A car slams into him like he was made of nothing but air and light and sound and sweet, sweet, sweet release and-

* * *

He hates his parents.

He hates his sister.

He hates the world.

Not as much as much as he hates himself, with his pride and greed and insecurity and goddamned hero complex that never seemed to go away no matter what he tried to do-

No.

Never as much as he hates Alfred F. Jones.

* * *

He blinks.

The still tick ticking of the clock and the man with the cloud on his head like a grey storm is looking at him and he does none of the aforementioned things.

Sunlight from the early morning spills onto the floor, and he remembers the utter emptiness in his stomach at the sight of redness in his sister's eyes and the shakiness of her breath from that morning. Forty minutes later, he steps out to the quiet conversations of Stevens and Arthur, moving to sit by his papa, who begins to speak of colder weather in a smooth rush of French.

He wishes his mind was the same way.

* * *

"Do you hate me?"

The question is phrased oddly, like a missed rhythm in the space of his brain and mouth that lost who it was being directed at in the end. Still, England looks up from his book at the sight of America in the doorway, lean and lost with his fingers constantly playing with the material of his long sleeved shirt.

Arthur blinks, and America winces at the sudden feeling of hurt and guilt and _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ in his chest after so long a period of being nothing but empty air. He doesn't feel himself moving, but the whimper that comes out of his throat is enough for his father's hand to rest on his shoulder and pull him down to the couch. England hushes him, breathing 'I love you' into the kisses pressed into his hair.

America shakes and shakes and shakes.

* * *

The house itself is oddly quiet, despite the occasional rumble from Kuma and the low hum of the TV in Madeline's home. They had come from a silent car ride to here at the request of Alfred, as if they didn't have enough to worry about with the stalemate between their children.

France is tracing the lines of England's palm while they watch some mindless antique show on PBS, and he smirks to himself at his husband's quiet mockery of "real british tea sets" before there is a thump heard from the other side of the house.

Kuma is up first, a slow moving mass of white fur and sleep before France and England, and they all turn the corner to the sight of her books on the opposite side of the room with a dent in the wall and their daughter crying into America's neck.

If he noticed them, he doesn't make any acknowledgement, moving his sister from her position on the floor and over to the couch, where her legs wrap around his too thin frame and his hands move to run up and down her back and curl into her hair.

Their parents leave then, as something of a solidarity for the two of them as he rocks her back and forth and tries to ignore the feeling disgust at himself for letting anyone see him as ugly as he was-

Stop.

Rewind.

He holds her, fingers tracing up and down the grove of her spine. Canada shudders, and he brushes back the hair from her face as some form of comfort before pressing his lips against her forehead.

Replay.

He loves Madeline.

He loves Madeline.

He loves Madeline.

* * *

Can we go to the beach? Alfred asks one cloudy morning.

He does not want to go to the beach.

France smiles, and it's strange at the sense of normalcy on the surface of the question, with the four of them driving in silence in the car before parking at the practically empty lot. It's too cold to do anything else but walk, both he and Arthur know that. Still, they trail far behind the sight of their children as America bends to pick up a stone before his sister inspects it and tries to skip it on the dark water.

Arthur sighs, and the weight of their worry and protectiveness that hasn't died over the years despite everything seems to be reflected in the heaviness of the cloudy morning.

Canada and America fall asleep in the backseat on the long drive home, an awkward tangle of limbs and fatigue and cold skin and something of an ache reaches both the nations' hearts as they unbuckle seatbelts and hoist the sleeping figures to their chests, carrying them from the car and up the stairs.

Alfred wakes to the humming of England's voice as he moves around the room, putting clothing away in his own closet, and the form of his sister snuggles closer to him in her sleep. He closes his eyes again, and tries to go back to the dream of the ocean surrounding him as he floats underneath the sky.

 _Under a bright, blue endless sky_

 _Waves try to measure the days that we treasured_

 _With hello and then goodbye._

The song his father sings fills the back of his brain, and eventually puts him back to sleep, despite the emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Three days and he's not sure if he's able to make it, the sight of shoulder blades like wings giving him some sense of sick pride and he hates and hates and hates-

Her hand is on his shoulder, moving down to grasp his hand in hers and bringing it up to kiss the raised skin of his wrists from past mistakes and grievances.

He was always too much, even back then.

Later, she holds him as he wakes from another nightmare of battlefields and gunshots and music in the background before a bullet entered into his brain- "put a bullet in me" he whispers- and she soothes him amongst cold and choking sheets, kissing"you're beautiful" into his wrists and his hair and his brain.

He cries.

* * *

Three weeks and he's gained enough courage to actually allow her back into his headspace, the familiar warmth of her illuminating his brain like some kind of drug.

His eyes meet hers from across the breakfast table, a mix of guilt and anxiety despite the medication and therapy sessions. France's hand is a calm reminder to breathe, palm squeezing his shoulder and kiss dropped into his hair puts the air into his lungs before he picks up his fork.

Canada gives a slight smile, taking a bite of the eggs on her plate. Stop. Rewind. Replay.

He follows suit.

* * *

Three months and he's-

 _Better?_

He opens his eyes to the hum of the air conditioner and settles himself somewhat deeper into the cool sheets. If he strains his ears, he can hear the wind moving outside through the almost bare trees and if he brings it impossibly close he can hear the drumming of his own heartbeat.

Moving might be a better term, albeit slowly.

He will try today, and try he does, moving past his sister's bedroom and down the stairs, before opening the fridge and steadying himself at the array of f-

Stop.

Array of food. And he closes his eyes, hand reaching out and grabbing the first random selection (thankfully, leftover pancake batter in a container).

Rewind.

She comes down the stairs, bleary eyed and still drowsy to the sight of him in the kitchen, teeth biting at fingernail stubs as he stares at the circle of pancake batter, waiting for it to solidify. America's eyes lift up to meet hers, and she smiles, moving around him to turn on the radio and let the low hum of music fill the quiet house.

"Do you want strawberries?" she asks, opening up the fridge and he steels himself, blinking once, twice.

Replay.

Breakfast is just another wave.

America gives a steady exhale, fingers playing at the material of his sleeves, scars on knuckles finally managing to fade away.

"Sure."


	8. negotiate

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA: AXIS POWERS**

Rage wasn't even a proper word to describe what he felt coming from her in those first few minutes.

There was something in the overwhelming tumult of emotions that almost make him stop in their wordplay of quick headed remarks and idle chatter with something underneath and he swears the boy can practically see the rage on his own face, covered by a mask that America had perfected over less than a few years, when then the mention of a referendum passes the nation's lips.

"...time to end things, you know? Can't be under control forever, am I right?"

America only gives a tight smile to Quebec, tapping his fingers against the glass of champagne and _oh god he is so young and it would be so easy to crush him down-_

"I suppose there are some benefits to staying."

Nicholas snorts, brown hair shaking slightly from where it fell to the nape of his neck. "Coming from the king of revolutions himself?" The mention of his past actions make America want to flinch. "No, see, the thing is that she thinks she's like me?" Quebec chuckles, gesturing his glass to the female across the room, who America doesn't even have to look at to know the conversation she's been having with a diplomat is only a reason for her to hear every single word.

"And," the nation continues, "those people of hers protesting and all that shit? Not even needed."

"Are you that confident?" America asks, focusing now on not crushing the glass that rested between his fingers.

"Of course. I mean, it's pathetic after a while. How easy she-oh well- _they_ are. She thinks she can hold onto things like they were years ago? Wake up. Bitch wants to be with me? No fucking way."

The obvious intimidation was too obvious and he only gives a tight smile again before someone else he can barely remember the name of joins there conversation and it dulls to the back of his brain before he turns his head to catch her eyes looking at him, with something of a warning.

 _I'm fine_. His eyes say. She actually gives a frown that he brushes off with a million dollar smile that unlike all the unfair times he's used it to deflect, she falls for it this time, turning back into the conversation.

* * *

He waits until they're in the bathroom.

The punch in the face is something he doesn't even register when he throws it, fist colliding with Quebec's face in a rush of anger, disgust, and sweet sweet relief. Nicholas swears , loudly, before finding his back against the wall of the bathroom and the calm face of America in his own.

"I don't have a problem with killing you. I don't have a problem with breaking every single on your bones and knowing what we are, it wouldn't take that long for me to be able to do it again. But I promised her that I would at least be courteous to you."

Nicholas laughs, the awkward angle of his nose something of a mark of victory, the sound coming out in a growing stream of blood. "And how's that working out for you, flyboy-"

His head is slammed back against the tile, pieces breaking off of the wall before Alfred's hand grasps his chin. "Better than expected. Now, here's what's going to happen. You can have your fun, and your jokes, as _disgusting_ as they might be, and your fucking pathetic plea for a referendum. Si je te vois regarder autant que ma sœur, _je vous tuerai_. _Compris_?" he snarls out.

When the two of them get into the car, she only hands him a tissue to wipe the blood off his fingers and says nothing the entire ride back to the hotel.

 _ **End Part I**_


End file.
